


Outfox Vol. 2: “Exciting First Issue!” Part 2 - Outfox Rises

by ExtremistComics



Series: Outfox [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal, Bondage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Futanari, Other, Parody, Peril, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtremistComics/pseuds/ExtremistComics
Summary: Outfox is abducted by the sinister Fantome, her oldest enemy, and placed in a stimulating but dangerous predicament, along with her two previous sidekicks and an ally turned vigilante. To escape, she’s going to have to work in perfect sync with Blood Eagle, her previous Sparrow who now wants nothing to do with her, and they’re going to have to endure being stuck together in a very delicate position while they thrust and wiggle their way to safety. (Mild implied violence and comic-book peril.)
Series: Outfox [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951930
Kudos: 3





	Outfox Vol. 2: “Exciting First Issue!” Part 2 - Outfox Rises

I wake up, as usual, nearly an hour before even Carla. I’ve mastered the art of slipping out of bed without waking my partners, most of whom typically aren’t awake to see the sunrise, despite usually being pinned between two of them on a given night. It’s good exercise having to contort and hover around two sleeping women first thing in the morning just to get to the bathroom, like Catherine Zeta-Jones in that movie, but with more skintight leather and a nicer ass. When you wade through the dark of the night like a sewer of human psychosis, it’s good to watch the sun come back out as often as you can. It reassures you that ill tides must also recede, just as all good things end.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so angry all the time,” Carla says when she begins to stir, “if you didn’t stay up all night, then wake up before dawn. When do you sleep?”

“Board meetings. Traffic. That’s why rich people have chauffeurs,” I say. “You should just buy a coffin so you can sleep during the day,” Carla says, “you don’t actually do anything at the company.” I have a seat on the board of National Development & Construction, of which my sister and I own the 80% stake our parents did. Alice takes a more active role in the company, but there are many, many matters that technically still require my assent to proceed. My daytime hours are typically spent saying yes to things that fifty people who are experts in that exact field have already said yes to. It’s really no wonder I put on fetish gear every night and hit people.

“Believe it or not, some of us are still trying to sleep at 5:58,” Kelly groans. “Are there still five empty bedrooms in the south hall of the east wing?”

In the kitchen, Catherine cooks breakfast with a quiet efficiency that conveys just how skilled she is with a crepe pan, and also how much she hates being that good at this. She went from the Royal Navy to MI5 to my parents’ security detail to raising two orphaned trust fund kids. She truly adores us, but there has never been a word spoken between us that wasn’t heavy with those facts. For about eight years of the Outfox era, she was back in the game, and she loved it. Now, she’s still the voice in my ear, but she feels sidelined after all these new faces have crowded into my life and the team. She’s frequently back to crepe and laundry duty, between the slack being picked up and the number of people living here at any time.

Standing at the tall kitchen island to eat, the dining table being an ostentatious mile-long eyesore in the adjacent room, the conversation is usually sporadic, each of us typically working on less than six hours sleep and sore all over, at least from last night’s recreational activities if not the costumed beatings we gave and/or took. Once we’ve got food in us, things get less funereal. “Should have worked on my paper last night,” Kelly says. “Finishing it all tonight is gonna be real rough.” After a few years being Sparrow, Kelly became worried she was letting her nighttime activities dominate her life, so she’s back in college to get a Master’s in political science. Naeva laughs. “You’re a full-time superhero sucking on the tit of your billionaire girlfriend,” she says, “I have no idea why you think you can live a ‘normal’ life, or why you would need to. Just be Sparrow all day. It’s better.”

They’ve had this conversation before, so Kelly starts out fairly defensive. “The life I want to have is my own life,” Kelly insisted, “I love Zora, and I love being Sparrow, but I’m not just going to coast on that, we both understand I want to do something with my life. It’s not just about having a job so I can feel like I’m not a sugar baby, I can actually be somebody.” Naeva’s face breaks so slowly into a full open-mouthed grin as Kelly speaks. “Well, that’s good, because you live in a house with a fuckin’ helipad,” she says, then gestures toward me. “This woman owns a boat. Two boats. Wait, let me say that right: Zora Miller owns a boat, and also, Outfox owns a boat.”

“There’s no goddamn ‘Fox-boat,’” I correct her, “the Chanticleer is a seaplane, and there was that ridiculous amphibious car we tried to build.”

“Oh yeah,” Carla says, “I forgot about the Outfrog.”

Naeva looks at Kelly’s shoulder for a second, and reaches out to touch it. “Hey, you’ve got a thing on your shirt,” she says. Almost imperceptibly quickly, her hand locks into a pinch, with four fingers on the back of Kelly’s shoulder and her thumb jabbing firmly into the front, Naeva’s wrist pivoting slightly so she can press just right. Just before she snaps her hand away, Kelly starts convulsing and letting out sputtering moans. She quickly catches her breath, but looks dazed.

“Fucking bitch,” Kelly mutters under her breath, “I just got dressed. Now I have to change my panties.” “Looks like you soaked them through,” Naeva chuckled, “there’s definitely a little jizz spot in your jeans.” Naeva knows the Touch, a set of tricks the original Assassins learned from some Shaolin monks who visited the Middle East. They’ve been nearly wiped out, even after surviving all these centuries, but their enemies in the Knights Templar picked it up and teach it to their own agents. Lilith taught her protégé well. The Touch involves careful stimulation of the body’s natural pressure points, or chakras or chi or some horseshit. I know it works, but I’m not convinced they actually know why. Rumors of a touch that can kill don’t seem to be true, but they can certainly paralyze temporarily, induce unbearable pain, or remotely trigger equally debilitating pleasure. It might work quickly, but if Naeva had kept the pressure up in that exact place, she could have made Kelly continue to orgasm indefinitely.

When Kelly gets up to check the damage, Naeva slaps her firmly on the ass, lingering there for a good long grab. “You are so adorable when you cum,” she says. “You look, and you sound, like you’re absolutely terrified.” Wiping uselessly at the dark spot on her crotch, Kelly says, “You only think that because if you’re the one seeing me cum, I probably need serious help.”

“Could we have, if at all possible,” Catherine asks, “a gentle reduction in semen talk and Chinese orgasm torture at the breakfast table, please?” Lady Renarde pays just as many intimate nighttime visits to my guests and friends as I do, but she is still more prudish about saying or doing these things out in the open, even at home. Catherine sees herself as a monogamist, romantically, who simply has a handful of non-exclusive “arrangements” with some friends-with-benefits. The fact that they’re frequently living in our house, eating her cooking, spending the daytime hours with her and frequently sleeping in her bed has not dissuaded her from her conviction that people are too inherently jealous and petty to make actual polyamorous relationships work. She’s old-fashioned. You wouldn’t know it looking at her, but she’s nearly seventy. We had a brief flirtation once, but even with my “lost weekend” walking the Earth for eight years she still felt too much of a familial bond to me to look past it, despite our physical chemistry. I might as well be her daughter, her black, American daughter who she’d said about ninety words to before I vanished immediately and showed back up at her door at 19.

Kelly leaves for class. Naeva scampers off to the makeshift gym in the vacant room next to the one she was staying in. Catherine spends some time emptying her .38 revolver into the dead center of Sierra’s archery targets in the garden, then does some dishes and finishes rereading another Joyce novel. Carla goes back to bed for a few hours, then meets with some activists she works with advocating for the rights of other indigenous people. What I spend the rest of the day doing before nightfall, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I’m not in the office today, but the hours blur and blend all the same.

As soon as the sun begins to spread its orange glow across the darkening blue sky, I go down to the Burrow with all my wonderful toys and suit up. The second night comes, I’m on the roof of Goldstein Tower, peering down on a city that’s at once silent at this height and deafeningly loud, shadowy in the absence of sun but blinding with artificial light. A scream scratches at my window to the world, and I tap my hips with my wrists, extending the wings hidden on my suit when I lift my arms back up, allowing me to drop almost straight down from this height and turn my freefall into a corkscrew glide to the ground if I do it at just the right second.

The attacker is gone by the time I land, but the victim is in bad shape. Her face is bruised, her skin scraped by the concrete, she tries to stand herself back up but can’t put weight on her leg, probably broken. “She took my purse,” she barely squeaks out, “she just ran. She knocked me over, I tried to get up, she pushed me back down hard, stomped on my head to keep me down. She knocked me over and she took it and she ran.” I try to help her up, and I fail to register why her face looks familiar before her desperately grasping hand “steadies her” by planting her palm on the front of my shoulder. I also fail to register to pinprick of a tiny needle, mounted on the band of a ring she’s wearing. Finally remembering her face, I whisper, “Ingenue?” and see the spreading grin on her face as the black closes in on my vision.

An amount of time passes that I couldn’t begin to guess, but when I awake I still see nothing but black. I can’t move any part of my body more than a little. My limbs are squeezed in on me, and another part that sticks out from my body is pressed firmly against something softer. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m strapped to another person. But I’m not simply bound, there’s an active pressure exerted on parts of me. I hear a faint click, and the pressure increases, making the slight motions any part of my body can attain even more difficult to manage. The only other input from any of my senses is the sound of my restrains scraping against the floor when I try to move, a pronounced slick moisture between my cock and the skin it seems to be touching, and a soreness in my muscles, which for some reason includes a throbbing in my anus. I have so many questions, and most of them remain after the room ceases to be pitch black, and after my eyes adjust to the comparatively dazzling lights as they snap to life.

I hear the clicking of overpriced shoes against the stonework floor of the chamber. Given my last memory is of being drugged by Ingenue, her latest giggling, brainwashed sycophant, it’s not hard to imagine who’s behind this. I’m suddenly tossed onto my side, and I hear a groaning murmur from very near my face, saying “Fuck offa me.” I can only see a very close view of the back of a head, unsure of whom I might be strapped to, but she seems to have just woken up. Tilting my head upward, I see a vague blur of a figure in red in my stunned vision. The light in here is relatively dim, but still burning my eyes after the total darkness I was immersed in before.

“I understand you three haven’t been on the best of terms lately,” a familiar voice taunts in her affected transatlantic purr, a vampy accent she thinks gives her an Old Hollywood mystique. “I do hope I didn’t have anything to do with all that. I never meant to be a disruption to your little harem of spandex cultists.”

I see Fantome clearly for the first time as she strides into my view wearing a red dress laden with endless bouncing layers of lacey ornamentation. As she bends down to get fully within the view I can manage while bound on the floor, I see her massive, elaborate hat and ghostly white skull mask. It’s always something different with her. If you ask somebody about Fantome, they’re likely to say her “thing” is old movies. When she’s not enacting some byzantine scheme to torment and terrify the public, she walks around in a much more elegant red dress, her skin painted head to toe to make her look perfectly silent-era monochrome. But when she puts a plot in motion, she adopts a whole aesthetic, from this Masque of the Red Death cosplay to perfect recreations of iconic looks considerably more glamorous. I don’t imagine she sews these things herself in her dank lairs, so I’ve long wondered who makes all these costumes for her.

“I wouldn’t want to be the ghost at the feast,” she says, hovering inches from my face as I’m nearly powerless to move. She went quite a long way to get to that line.

“Where the fuck am I?” a voice asks from the other side of the head I can only see the back of. I know that perpetually-irritated snarl. It’s Charlie. Charlie Bronson was my second Sparrow, but after less than two years she was mauled pretty badly by Sharkbait and became a bit withdrawn. When she stopped being Sparrow, I figured it was because she was putting her dangerous habit behind her entirely. Not long after, it became clear that she hadn’t decided to avoid the danger, but that she needed to be strong enough, and absolutely willing, to crush it before it could hurt her. She calls herself Blood Eagle, running around with body armor and two pistols like a goddamn lunatic. We don’t exactly do Sunday brunch or text each other heart emojis anymore.

I hear another click as my bindings tighten yet again, squeezing Charlie and I together even tighter. “I’ve been watching the old Poe movies lately,” Fantome muses. “The original Universal ones, the Hammer ones with Vanessa Price and Patricia Cushing. The Black Cat, The Raven, Masque of the Red Death of course. Half of them just used the name for marketing and made up some silly plot of their own, but they’re all such fun.” “Shut. Up,” Charlie spat. “Nobody cares. Just kill us or don’t, you crazy bitch.” Charlie isn’t much fun to theatrically torment, so I’m surprised Fantome abducted both of us. Fantome is a “gimmick” villain, like the comical loons of my early days, but she uses her themed antics to lure people into underestimating her. She is legitimately sadistic and dangerous, and doesn’t have much of a body count lately, but only because she’d prefer to leave her victims alive, shot through with permanent scars, physical or psychological. For nearly a year, when she first emerged, she terrorized New London with a new horror almost every week. She’s one of the last of the gimmicks, but maybe the most feared woman in the city, and she wrote herself that story in blood.

“Don’t provoke the psychopath, Eagle,” another voice calls out from the other side of the room. I can’t see her from my restrained vantage, but it certainly sounds like Spencer Johnson. Spencer was the original Sparrow, but adopted the name Peregrine as we drifted apart. She took a sabbatical to finish law school, became a public defender, and was shocked by the failings of the legal system. She sees me as part of the problem, a cop without laws, a judge without a jury. She became Peregrine again when she decided the system couldn’t be fixed from the bottom, and took the fight to corrupt police and politicians. I have great respect for what she does, but she wouldn’t say the same about me. She would admit that I spend a lot more of my time fielding dangerous costumed madwomen than tackling petty crime, but she’d also say that those people might not be robbing and killing dressed as medieval knights or spacemen if I hadn’t started kickboxing my way across wearing a spandex and leather Giger painting. She might be right.

“I’m getting to you, Partridge,” Fantome says, removing her probably uncomfortable mask to reveal her usual makeup. “I assure you, I have plans for the mighty Pigeon. But my first course is a Fox stuffed inside an Eagle.” As the contraption I’m wrapped up in clicks again, I feel Charlie shift inside them relative to me, sliding upward along my body. The lubricant slathered in excessive quantities around my dick and all over her ass makes this sliding motion and the tight press of both our bodies around it more pleasurable than I’m comfortable with, and I notice a definite stiffening creep over me, digging my tip into the divide between her buttocks until it presses firmly against a tight but well-oiled sphincter.

“Everybody remembers the big swinging blade, but the ‘pit’ in The Pit and the Pendulum was also deliciously cruel,” Fantome says. “A dark room, a bottomless hole in the floor, the walls closing in until you can no longer hold onto the edge. You’re perched at the edge of a hole you fit into perfectly, my little Fox, and the walls are closing in.”

“Oh,” another voice calls out from beyond the entrance Fantome came through, “I get it now. That’s clever.” Ingenue would be the last person Fantome would trust to carry out her schemes, but she is obsessed with the Grand Guignol artistry of Fantome’s crimewave and the unpredictable cruelty of her mistress’ whims has left her with few henchwomen of late. “Ginny,” Fantome shouts into the dark, “I swear to every malign god in the void that I will cane you with your own femur if you keep interrupting my evil gloating.”

I hear another click, and I shift slightly inside my tightening restraints in the other direction. In my inadvertent rigor and with all this slickness, the first inch of me slides very easily into Charlie. We both gasp with the feeling, and Fantome grins immediately, reaching toward my back to flip some kind of switch on the device we’re strapped into. “It begins,” she whispers eagerly. “This will bring you closer together after all these sad years you two have wedged yourselves further apart.”

“What the fuck?” another voice calls out, this time from well above the rest of us. Fantome turns me on the floor so I can see a thick wooden pole in the middle of the room, then flips me onto my back, Charlie’s weight pushing me further into her, so I can see a woman hanging from a set of pulleys by a chain, suspended with her legs pulled back and strapped into place over the rounded tip of the pole. She’s black, and quite well-toned, but I certainly can’t see her face at that distance in the dim light of the room.

“Justice? Oh God,” Spencer cries out. It did sound like her voice. Justice is Prudence Madison, a captain in the New London police who used to be my closest ally on the force. Pru has never been satisfied with the good she could do as part of the deeply corrupt, fundamentally misguided NLPD, and eventually took up the mantle of Justice, a vigilante whose war on the abuse of power in this city put her in touch with the crimefighter she once knew as Sparrow, her lover Peregrine.

“That would be the pendulum,” Fantome says to nobody in particular, “except in this case she is the one moving toward the giant implement of her doom.” I hear the chain holding Pru up rattle, and I hear something else shift along with it, followed by Pru yelping as I see her plunge slightly downward. “The counterweight on the device holding you up is calibrated very precisely to only let you fall very, very slowly,” Fantome shouts upward. “But if you struggle, you will drop much more quickly. The whole thing is pretty greasy, so you might enjoy the first six or eight inches but you’re eventually going to end up feeling the other eight feet too, and that might hurt a bit.”

Pru didn’t respond, probably nervous to move or even speak before she figures out how she’s going to get out of this one. Spencer, however, shouts “You better kill me, Fantome. When we get out of this, I’m not going to stop Eagle this time when she tries to dump you in Bronte Lake with a concrete ballgown.” Spencer doesn’t understand as well as Charlie does how to express her disdain for Fantome without egging on her sadistic games. She likes making us angry. Charlie knows how to make her feel just a bit tedious and predictable, even if she’d never let us see it.

The apparatus clicks once again, and Charlie’s hips push down further, skewering her on me just a bit more. She lets out a frustrated grunt, and I feel her own lengthening cock slither along the top of my thigh, pressed downward by our binds. “What are you doing to Peregrine?” I ask, not being able to see much more of the room than I have so far no matter how I turn my head. “Nothing yet,” Fantome whines with mock concern, “I want Penguin and her little vigilante pal to be positioned right to watch each other die. Liberty or Truth or whatever her name is has an awful lot of dick to sit on before she has a good view. You ever seen The Black Cat, Outfox? The part at the end?” Fantome bends down in front of me again, holding a sharp, polished straight razor she flicks open with Sweeney Todd alacrity. “Bella Lugosi ties Natasha Karloff to a torture rack, and…well, I ought not spoil the ending. You’ll be absolutely riveted when it happens, I’m sure.” I’m familiar with the movie. She skins her alive from head to toe, and this time it won’t be tastefully hidden offscreen. I have to get out of these mummy wrappings as quickly as I can.

Another click drives me deeper into Charlie, who makes a noise less frustrated than previous groans and more breathy and soft. I wouldn’t say she’s enjoying our predicament, but the way it feels for me I can certainly understand why her reactions might be tempered by the sensation. To facilitate using my limited but often-employed skills at escaping bounds like this, I turn onto my side as best I can, toppling Charlie onto hers. “Hey!” she shouts, then remembering to keep quiet, whispers “At least warn me before you do that.” I was hoping not to attract the attention of Fantome too directly, but I can’t see her, so I imagine she’s taunting Peregrine, or has left to retrieve more bizarre torture implements. Spencer was Sparrow during Fantome’s heyday, and the villainess has always had particular antipathy toward her. She seems to be taking special pains to torment Spencer, even bringing Pru into things. I hear occasional gasps and yelps that could be Spencer, but I have no idea how badly she’s being treated. The occasional tinkling of Pru’s chains tell me she’s in serious trouble too. I need to put everything I can into getting out, but I’m not seeing a way forward.

I’m not in a good position to dislocate my shoulder or pull any other old escape artist trick. I wriggle a bit to try to find any area where my movement is slightly less restricted, or a place I could jab into to pull something loose, but I fail to make much headway, and every time I move, Charlie moans and whimpers, the motion pulling me little bits at a time in and out of her still-slick hole. “Can you please move as little as possible?” Charlie says, “It doesn’t seem like it’s even doing anything.” “I don’t know what you expect to happen if we don’t do something,” I whisper. “You’re not the one getting ass-fucked, Zora,” she responds as quietly as she can manage. “We’re also not the ones being impaled or skinned alive,” I say, “I don’t like this any more than you do.” “Maybe a little bit more,” Charlie feels compelled to snark, but as nice as it would otherwise be to be buried in a toned but perfectly rounded butt like hers, she has always been an enthusiastic recipient, so there’s little reason for her to assume I’m getting anything out of this that she isn’t except petty resentment.

The bindings do not seem to have any clear weak points I could exploit, but staying here and accepting our fates is not an option. As Spencer continues to restrain cries of pain and Pru slides down toward her doom, I struggle to think of anything productive to do while entirely encased in thick straps and stuck to an entire person. The only possibility is to somehow get us onto our feet, allowing us at least some degree of mobility. Like a finger trap, though, this might mean closing myself further into my cage before I can spring out. I push my legs forward and upward as much as I can, bending my knees to the best of my ability. Charlie rightly asks, “What the fuck are you doing?” as my motions make things a bit more uncomfortable, pushing us deeper into our unwitting penetration. “We need to stand. We have to find a position where we can get on our feet,” I say. I try to roll my hips enough to get some part of my feet into place, pushing some really tawdry noises out of my poor partner. “Careful!” she says, “You’re really giving it to me when you thrash your fucking pelvis around like that.” “Charlie,” I whisper, “I know this is uncomfortable but I can’t focus on anything but getting everybody safe. I’m going to do whatever I have to do, and I’m sorry but I need you to help.” After a few more jostles, making us both pretty flustered, I rethink the physics of this situation.

“Get on top of me again,” I say. “We can try to sit up. Then if we throw ourselves forward enough, we can maybe get our feet flat on the ground.” “So you want me to put all my weight back on your crotch,” she says, “and then bounce as hard as I can on your lap. That’s the plan, while we’re stuck in this situation.” “I know what that’s going to do,” I admit, “but please tell me if you can think of something better to try.”

We roll ourselves onto my back, and Charlie does indeed sink immediately to the base of my cock, letting out a moan that borders on a scream. I manage not to vocalize it, but the feeling is fairly intense for me too. I don’t know what’s going to happen if she starts moving the way she has to. In my different position, I can now see Pru, who is almost a foot lower than she was before. She is trying to move as little as possible, finding herself in the same predicament we are. Every motion she makes only plays into the perverted agenda of Fantome’s traps. Focused on my sympathy for Pru, I fail to notice Charlie’s attempts to throw the top half of her body forward into a seated position, and I’m caught off guard by the sudden shift she makes off and back onto my dick. That time I definitely make a noise. Charlie throws her weight a few more times, and eventually gets enough momentum to significantly change our position. She also starts panting as she does it, and I know why, because these little hops she’s doing are slamming me in and out of her with great force.

I hear a muffled shriek, and think for a second that Fantome might be doing her absolute worst to Spencer, but when he head tilts back again I see the cause. Pru has finally dropped enough that the tip of the pole, quite wide all the way down its length, has entered her ass. The shock compounds itself, as the sensation of the entry causes her to react enough physically that she pushes herself slightly further down. She puts an end to this cycle pretty quickly, demonstrating great control over herself, but she might have had as much as four inches shoved inside by those thrashes. That’s not a dangerous amount, but it means she has a bit less time before the tower starts invading depths that were not meant to be penetrated.

Charlie begins lunging yet again, hoping to get our feet under her enough to start trying to put our weight onto them. “Charlie, slow down a little,” I say, not wanting to explain exactly what I’m concerned is about to happen. “Oh,” she scoffs, “so when you’re in control I have to get jackhammered, but now it’s al about nuance and precision? Sit back and let me ride your cock, we have to do whatever we can, right?” “I’m sorry,” I say, Charlie perhaps assuming I was referring to my snapping at her. In reality, her incidental thrusting is having perhaps more of an effect on me that she realizes. She quickly realizes what I meant, though, when my breathing hastens in her ear, and my occasional sounds of discomfort give way to a single, longer moan. I can’t hold back the distinct twinge I had been trying to contain any longer. Stifling a much louder groan, I hum through clenched teeth as I lose control entirely over the orgasm crashing as high tide with great force on my shores. A hefty deposit rockets out of me straight up Charlie, who clenches her own jaw and tries not to let out her own grunt, but one likely motivated more by disgust. She knew this was going to be a thorny situation, but she might have still hoped neither of us would be pushed all the way over that brink before we were done. “Thanks, Fox,” she spits. “Can you help me roll forward now that your dick isn’t as hard anymore?”

The rigidity in my loins does begin to dissipate, but not very quickly. From across the room, I hear Fantome’s voice chime in again. “I heard that moaning and panting over there,” she says. “Congratulations on defiling yourselves so expertly, but going soft now would be cheating.” I hear her reach into a pocket hidden somewhere on the baroque monstrosity of a dress she’s wearing, and I hear the hollow plastic click of a button being pressed. All at once, the slight anal discomfort I woke up with is reintroduced into the proceedings and clearly explained when the plug that’s apparently inside me starts vibrating at full force, its precision-built tip making its presence known to my prostate with gusto. The speed at which my post-orgasmic member was receding slows, then stops. “Oh no, oh God,” Charlie says, hearing the vibrations quite clearly against the inflexible stone floor of this oddly medieval dungeon room, wherever the hell we are, a surface that is only making the item push into my delicate weak point harder. As I realize this fact, it occurs to me what’s going to happen if Charlie starts moving again.

My softening goes from paused to reversed as the toy does its work, my firmness fairly quickly returning in force. “Cool,” Charlie says, “you’re a marble fucking column again. Sorry, but we have to get out of this right now.” Charlie starts rocking herself forward again. Before the plug started vibrating, I was too distracted to notice its presence consciously, although it probably contributed to the speed with which I climaxed (not to brag). Now that it was shaking like a paint mixer and practically drilling my prostate, Charlie’s weight and movement were doubly troublesome, causing me not only to continually fuck her, but to fuck myself against the stones. I feel little progress being made with getting us upright, but progress on forcing me through another accidental orgasm was steadily being achieved with flying colors.

I hear a series of sharp, moaning exhales from above, and tilting my head again I see Pru struggling, worse than before. She’s caught in another spiral, where the feeling of the pole makes her squirm and pushes her further down. She has maintained great control so far, so her sudden inability to steady herself would lead me to assume she’s approaching, if not in the depths of, an orgasm. If that’s true, she’s actually handling it quite well.

On that subject, my attention is turned briefly back to Charlie’s attempts to hurl us upright when she abruptly manages to actually get fairly close, but during the attempt I had just taken the last step off the plateau, the climax building inside me reaching that point of no return where no amount of concentration or distraction can re-bottle your genie. At the worst possible moment, my foot slips, bringing the two of us back down, disappointing my good friend Blood Eagle even more than the second, lighter, looser wad I sent soaring through her did.

“…sorry,” I say. “No problem,” Charlie hisses, “I’d gladly do this all day.”

As Charlie continues, rousing the earliest stirrings of a third little accident as her greased, vacuum-tight hole continues to stroke me incessantly with her every movement, a sound starts to reverberate through the room. I can’t discern what it could be, a loud knocking like a battering ram on a door. My focus is still difficult to gather on just one aspect of this bedlam, but I pivot once again to see Pru swinging with reckless abandon. She moves down the pole slightly, enough to put her at great risk if she keeps this up for long, but her motion is focused clearly on heaving herself straight ahead and straight backward. The perturbation of the chain and its pulleys is indeed letting her slip, but she also makes headway at uprooting the entire pole, now that enough of it is gripped within her. “You think you can beat my nine-foot rod?” Fantome laughs, “I’m dying to see you try, as I imagine shall you pretty quickly.” The knocking is only getting louder, and a faint cracking follows.

Pru is still bound, however, her arms straight above her anchored to the chain and her legs at her sides. If she lands wrong, and even if she manages to avoid driving the pole into herself, she’s going to land hard without something to break her fall.

But Fantome will do nicely.

The pole snaps well below the halfway point, bringing Pru down to the hard stones below. She is not lined up to land on any convenient psychopathic cushions, but the pole she is still pretty solidly attached to is, slowing her descent to a speed that is not comfortable when you’re heading toward solid rock with your limbs stiff but is also not fatal. Unfortunately, even without the ticking clock of impalement steadily creeping up, Justice has little way to get herself free of her bonds, and I’m still not able to see what situation Spencer is in but it’s doubtful she has any way away from it either, even if Fantome is out cold.

With renewed resolve, but also without the dark heart of New London breathing down our necks, we start to make progress building momentum to take us onto our feet. Without too much further bashing each other’s erogenous zones against our pelvises and a stone floor, we make it shakily onto our four feet, though moving from that spot consists of more of the remaining work than we had expected after beating and fucking ourselves into mush trying to get there. We knew walking, by any conventional definition, was not an option, but coordinating a hop forward with limbs entirely bound is difficult enough for one person (yes, I know firsthand), let alone two. We have a hell of a time getting forward more than an inch at a time, and with fuss that renders our activity a bit more comical to watch than our dire circumstances merit.

We also still seem to have another issue I had expected would be less of an obstacle.

The amount of leg and hip motion it takes to propel the two of us a useful distance is having a secondary effect on other parts of our bodies, the plug still doing its job keeping me erect. After nearly falling back down when we land a particularly long jump (all of four inches, perhaps), not from exhaustion or clumsiness but from simultaneously hitting the absolute precipice of orgasm and narrowly missing a Wile E. Coyote run straight off the cliff, we change tactics. We begin using our knees to scoot our feet slowly forward, maintaining a steadier pace and keeping ourselves from tumbling back down if we fail to stick the landing, but managing to take a tiny chunk out of even the glacial pace we’d had before. This caution allows the stimulation we were forced to give each other to proceed without knocking us down, but definitely isn’t diminishing the act itself, turning my infrequent sharp stabs inward into a shorter, more constant series of smaller thrusts, accidentally turning a smattering of awkward incidents into something essentially identical to the motion of purposeful, eager humping. As we fuck our way across the room, only pausing to stave off imminent climax, we hear Pru squirm against her restraints, see Spencer work on hers while lashed by the wrists and ankles to a truly Inquisition-worthy piece of hardware, and more importantly notice Fantome begin to stir back to consciousness.

Attempting to pick up the pace until nearly toppling forward causes us to reconsider, we are both fairly uncertain what we’re actually going to do when we get where we’re headed. “I must say,” Fantome growls half-dazed, “I did not expect you four to pose much of a challenge when I had you all bound. you almost deserve a reprieve from having your guts ripped out.” Shakily getting onto her feet, though not nearly as shakily as us, she flicks her razor open once again and says, “Ever seen a movie called Begotten? Kinda like that.” Fantome lunges toward us, blade out, and underestimates our willingness and ability to evade her attack. Charlie pulls us sharply forward, tossing our whole weight directly into Fantome, knocking us both to the floor. Had she not been about to kill one of us, this would have been a questionable strategy in a situation where we are bound from our soles to our necks, and she is not, making our prone positions considerably asymmetrical in tactical disadvantage. Fantome, however, drops the razor. Pru, by now, has flipped herself over into a face-down position and turned to that her arms, still chained upward, are toward us, which was a lateral move until the blade entered the picture. Charlie and I do our absolute best to stay on top of Fantome, our inseparable weights finally becoming an advantage, but until we see Pru grasp the razor from the floor, we aren’t entirely sure what exactly we’re stalling to buy time for. Pru inches her way across the floor that must be absolutely destroying her knees, and manages to move her hands just enough that she can saw through some of the bands holding us with Fantome’s instrument of mayhem. Once I have even a small amount of motion restored to my left arm, I’m able to escalate our escape quickly.

“How you always get so fucking lucky,” Fantome croaks with absolute venom, “I will never understand.”

Charlie keeps Fantome pinned as I break Pru and Spencer out of their restraints. Peregrine bears a few shallow slashes, but Fantome had essentially just been toying with her before the planned finale. “Are you alright, Justice?” I ask. “Ass hurts,” Pru states casually, which I ought to clarify is not a product of exhaustion or trauma. She’s about that terse pretty much constantly. Every muscle on every one of our bodies aches. It takes about twenty minutes of squaring away the wreckage of this disaster before I even remember to extricate the still-vibrating plug from my ass, my erection having subsided once I was free of Charlie’s “pit” and I’d endured four orgasms. At least we have plenty of options for restraining Fantome.

A cursory check of the building performed by Peregrine fails to turn up Ingenue. We discover pretty quickly that we’ve been taken to Challenger Manor, a palatial estate in Hobb’s End just outside of town that has been abandoned since the late 70s. I’m familiar with the place, although why it has a sinister stone chamber under the kitchen is beyond me. The former residents are spoken of quite a bit in New London, but most of the rumors are transparently absurd. Spencer returns with our respective costumes, which had been lain out lovingly in the parlor, an unsurprisingly fetishistic move by Fantome or possibly her accomplice. She always keeps souvenirs.

Upon seeing her suit again, Pru has a sudden realization and asks, “Why did she leave our masks on?”

I hadn’t even noticed, honestly, that we had been stripped of all clothing by the pair, but our masks had been left intact. Fantome has always done this, even when she’s gotten us otherwise naked. I decide not to bother Prudence with this alarming fact for now, but we’ve long assumed that Fantome knows all our identities already. She has never shown much interest in our real names or faces, even when she had access to them, and she occasionally makes comments that seem a bit more knowing than one might expect.

“She hadn’t earned it,” I say instead. “She didn’t deserve to know who we were until we were dead. That’s the game. She really thought she was going to win this time, but she always does, and she hasn’t yet.”

Clothed again, minus certain parts of our suits that were presumably damaged when the leading lady and her disturbed understudy carelessly tore into them, we perp walk Fantome out the door. “You finally caught me,” she teases. “At long last, I have been apprehended and will surely face the icy grip of justice. Oh! That’s your name! Justice! I just remembered.”

“Go fuck yourself with a nine foot pole, Norma Desmond,” Pru says.

“Haul me off, ladies!” Fantome cackles. “Lock me up, Outfox! Put me up the pear tree, Partridge! Calgon, take me away!” She breaks down entirely into mad laughter.

“How about I take that slasher movie razor,” Blood Eagle says, “and I cut you a permanent smile all the way to your ears. Would that make you laugh, you delirious bitch?”

“That’d suit me just fine, Shit Bird,” Fantome says. “It’d look beautiful on me, don’t you think?”

Dirt gets in my eyes. I’m unsure from what. My ears ring, telling me I just heard a noise so loud my brain is still catching up. There are explosions before us, lots of tiny ones. Somebody is shooting at us.

The others scatter, but I’m the one holding Fantome. She knocks us to the ground, seemingly unconcerned that we’re under fire. “The end, question mark?” she says between bursts of bullets. “Wrong again. Cliffhanger.”

A figure approaches, Uzi aimed squarely at me. I hear footfalls behind me, but not too close. the others will have come back for me as soon as the shooting stopped, but they can see the gun aimed at me.

“Any of you fucking bitches move, and I'll execute every motherfucking last one of ya!” Ingenue says, although she might have phrased it slightly differently. I’m a bit distracted.

“She’s my ride, ladies,” Fantome says. “Sorry to leave so quickly.”

The pair walk away toward a nondescript approaching car, driven by a nervous girl dressed as a theater usher from back in the day. Ingenue moves backward the whole time, keeping us in sight and at the end of her machine gun.

“Roll on snare drum,” Fantome says. “Curtains!”

The car disappears into the distance at full speed. Alone, ill-equipped and miles from anybody we know, we let them go once again. Fantome has done many horrible things I’ve been unable to prevent, and I’ve stopped many more, but in all those times, I have gotten her into a jail cell not once. This should make her a more constant presence in my life, compared to other creeps who are frequently in and out of prison, but she still vanishes for months at a time on a regular basis since the last few years. Every time she’s just about to be forgotten, there she is. That’s part of it for her now. It’s an art.

The trackers and earpieces in our suits have been disabled, but Pru is a little more low-tech, fortunately, and still travels with a phone on her. We call in help, and we’re picked up within fifteen minutes, somehow. I think Catherine’s secret is just a disregard for traffic law.

Given the state we’re all in, I convince Spencer, Pru and Charlie to stay the night. Of course, by the time we get home it’s 4:53, so the night they take to sleep off their bruises and aches runs until about 3 PM. Spencer and Pru share a bed in the room next to Catherine’s. Charlie sleeps in Kelly’s bed, which she infrequently uses, Kelly having a soft spot for the brutal vigilante just like she does for all my former allies. I have no issue with this. Kelly is good for her, and I sincerely doubt anything will rub off in the other direction. Our king size bed having a space open, Naeva stays with Carla and I, a somewhat infrequent occurrence. Thoroughly drained on an unusually literal level, I don’t partake in anything prurient, which is a shame given how often we’re both in bed with Foxfire. They put on a good show, though. Carla’s savage treatment of Naeva’s tender flower, a twenty-minute nonstop pounding that made the typically arrogant, inflexibly stoic badass squeal until she practically dissolved, very nearly coaxed a full firmness out of my poor, beaten prick. Unable to hop in firsthand, Carla let me in on the debauchery by depriving the begging cunt of our mutual friend of her ultimate gift, unloading into my mouth what would surely have been three loads if she hadn’t deliberately held back while devastating Naeva’s desperate pussy. Too much of it came out too quickly to not swallow most of it, but I turned to Naeva for a kiss, letting her have just enough of a taste to fill a little less deprived.

I didn’t watch the sun come up the next day. I slept far too well that night. I almost made it past 9 AM.

That morning, we had a later breakfast. For the first time in quite a while, Spencer and Charlie were there, and I almost let myself forget how temporary that was likely to be. They enjoyed themselves. Prudence was a new addition entirely, and she still seemed amazed at the frequency with which we do these sorts of things, her own vigilante activities being a lot less frequent. She had scene the scars dotting Spencer’s body, and now she understood a bit better why we were all so blessed with those badges of duty. “I think they’re the hottest thing about me,” Naeva noted, “and that’s high praise.”

“I don’t know about that,” Catherine said. “You’ve got an absolutely cracking set of tits.” Catherine put her arm around Naeva’s waist, pulling her very close for a peck on the temple. “I assume you’ve each left me a set of sheets to clean again, so are any of you ingrates going to help with the washing up, or shall I handle all these fucking dishes myself?”


End file.
